


The Lady Lancelot

by StarlightAsteria



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drama, Eggsy & Roxy Bromance, F/M, Godfather Percival, Romance, Roxlin - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it’s because of her height, or because she is unashamedly a lady, well-mannered, and, she hopes, kind, or because her eyes also sparkle with a fierce, intimidating kind of intelligence and determination, but she’s rarely treated as an equal. And so something unexpected sparks within her at the show of respect. She’s determined to show she’s worthy of it. </p>
<p>Eventual Roxlin</p>
<p>Cross-posted on ff.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter the First

Part the First

* * *

 

She wakes early the day the Kingsman selection starts, adrenaline kicking its way through her body under the covers of her four poster bed in her room in her guardian’s manor. She dresses with her usual care: racing green jodhpurs, white silk shirt and tailored tweed jacket and brown leather boots polished to a reflective mahogany sheen.

Over toast and mushroom scrambled eggs, her guardian and uncle knows not to crowd her head with last minute advice, and she smiles in recognition.

“Be ready to leave in two hours, niece.” His voice is calm and full of the optimistic, gentle affection she’s grown up receiving from him.

“I will be, uncle.”

 

* * *

 

_Three days earlier, Kingsman HQ_

Merlin flips through the file, his long fingers turning page after page of black, closely typed notes. “Roxanne Helena Caecilia Emilia de Lornay Mainwaring-Morton. The daughter of the Earl of - you’re certain this is who you want to propose, Percival?”

“I have no doubts. I never have.” Merlin looks at him seriously then, his face impassive. Percival knows he finds it hard to believe what he’s hearing. After all, there’s never been a female Kingsman agent recruit, much less a selected Knight.

“Read her file, Merlin. I guarantee it, you’ll be impressed.”

Merlin throws his fellow knight a withering glare, not even deigning to reply verbally. It’s a well known fact that it takes a lot to impress him. With a tilt of his head, he replies, genuinely interested, “How are you so certain?”

Percival’s answering smirk as he swirls his glass of whisky - single malt, no ice - in his left hand is positively wicked. “She’s more than my niece and goddaughter, Merlin. I raised and trained her myself.” He pauses, frowning, before continuing in a much more serious tone of voice. “My bastard of a brother and his wife never cared about her in the slightest. They have their heir, Hector, and nothing else matters to them.”

Merlin’s eyes light with understanding, and he shakes his head, rueful laughter slipping through his lips as he looks at the photograph of the remarkably pretty twenty-two year old. “This is your Roxy,” he says, thinking of all the times Percival has come into HQ over the years practically bursting the seams of his bespoke suits with pride at something his ward, known to all of Kingsman as _Percy's Roxy_ , has done, excitedly regaling his fellows with stories of her latest exploit at school, and as she’s got older, tales of her beauty, her fire, her exquisite disarming in three moves of the under-eighteen world fencing champion at the age of fourteen…

“This is my Roxy, as you say.” Percival confirms. “She’s small, but she’s got more balls on her than all of the Oxford rowing team put together.” With a teasing grin, he says,” This is all in her file of course, but she read History at Christ Church -“

“She’s a Member of the House? Oh, that’s _excellent_.” There’s a wry, mischevious glint in Merlin’s eyes that Percival knows to to be wary of. “If she becomes Lancelot, I’ll finally have someone to prank all the boring Mertonians and Balliol prats with,” (he pointedly ignores Percival’s snorted _sod off_ ) “not to mention what we’ll be able to do those poor devils who went to the other place.”

“Yes, you’re happy about not being outnumbered any more, understood.” Percival cuts him off, laughing, before standing smoothly with the coiled grace of the predator that he is. “But in all seriousness, she knows how to handle herself.”

“Good.”

“Her argentine tango is also absolutely flawless,” Percival remarks off-handedly as he opens the door to Merlin’s office and leaves him alone.

Merlin sits motionless for a few seconds, before abruptly standing and pouring himself a generous measure of whisky. His hands are shaking. _What?_  he asks himself. No matter how much he stares out of the Georgian windows of his study, trying to admire the spectacular view of the grounds he’s been given, Percival’s insidious parting words won’t leave him. They work their way into his skin, a mantra surging through his veins, making his heart pound until he feels dizzy.

_Her argentine tango is also absolutely flawless._

And with that, he knows he’s fucked, even if he won’t admit it to himself.

 

* * *

 

As she sits in the passenger seat of the vintage Jag - racing green, what else? - as they tear down country lanes, her long golden hair being whipped into a long streak of sunlight behind her, eyes protected by a spare pair of her uncle’s driving goggles, she attempts to control her nerves in the way she’s always done before a fencing competition or before an exam. She hums Elgar’s Nimrod Variation under her breath, matching her breathing to its slow, heartbreaking tempo, trying to enjoy the roar of the Jag’s engine as Percival steers it round a series of hairpins, one leather-clad hand gripping the steering wheel, the other on the gearstick, an expression of boyish glee on his face.

She’s grown up on a diet of fencing, academics, dancing, and Percival’s stories of Kingsman. Tales of their daring and intelligence, of Galahad’s umbrella and Merlin’s glasses and Tristan’s poison-resistant gloves. And now she’s going to meet them. And now she’s going to do her damnest to show them all, these names and figures that loom larger than life in her head, that she belongs there. That she deserves to be a Knight at their table. And not just any Knight, but _Lancelot_.

“Almost there, Roxy,” her uncle tells her, taking in her small hands clenched tightly into fists and her sharp focus on the road in front of them, as they pull up at a set of impressive gates at eighty miles an hour.

“Uncle?”

Percival doesn’t reply to her incredulous question as the gates open - through some sort of recognition sensor, she assumes - without him needing to slow down. If anything, he speeds up as they roar down an oak flanked drive, the engine noise drowning her gasp of surprise.

“ETA five minutes, Merlin.” Percival suddenly says over his comms, making her look at him, trying to keep her face from showing the stomach churning mix of nerves and excitement and adrenaline that’s making her knees tremble. Percival catches her glance and his boyish grin widens. “Actually, Merlin, make that two minutes.”

Her eyes widen.

“You have nothing to worry about, Roxy. Believe me, you’re ready for this. More than ready. So chin up, young lady, and show them what you’re made of.” She lets her uncle’s warm words wash over her, a calming voice.

“Thanks, uncle.”

Percival grins back at her, and says as the Georgian manor that is Kingsman HQ comes into view, “Merlin’ll meet us there.”

And then he floors it so they arrive outside the main entrance, a Palladian affair with a colonnade and portico, tyres squealing on the gravel. She groans when Percival decides to stop by executing a perfect flying handbrake turn, leaping out of the Jag with far too much energy for the fifty-something that he is. She gets out of the car far less flamboyantly, rips off her driving goggles, dropping them back in her seat and lifting her bag out with her left hand, before following her uncle up the steps.

The man waiting for them in front of massive oak doors is tall, wearing a black suit, and holding what she will soon learn is his ever present tablet clipboard. She puts him somewhere in his mid forties, and she knows this is Merlin.

Their eyes meet and something indefinable flickers in his eyes before his face is suddenly impassive again. She blushes, and she’s suddenly aware of how disheveled she must look, with her windswept blonde hair all over the place. It’s not the first impression she wants to make, but she resists the urge to run her hands through it and tie it up, because that would only draw attention to it, show that she’s uncomfortable, and schools her face into a polite smile.

“Come on, Roxy!” Percival calls, and that draws a genuine laugh from her, her uncle’s cheerfulness taking her back into safe, familiar territory. But she’s not going to use Percival to hide behind, because that would imply she’s only a little girl unable to take care of herself and unfit for the position of Lancelot, so she squares her shoulders and focuses on maintaining the excellent posture ballet’s taught her.

“Welcome to Kingsman HQ, Lady Roxanne Morton,” Merlin says formally, bowing over her hand in a gesture that makes her suck in a quick breath. She’s not used to such unaffected galantry: the guys her own age - she really hesitates to use the word men - are either drunken idiots or superlicious snobs. Maybe it’s because of her height, or because she is unashamedly a lady, well-mannered, and, she hopes, kind, or because her eyes also sparkle with a fierce, intimidating kind of intelligence and determination, but she’s rarely treated as an equal. And so something unexpected sparks within her at the show of respect. She’s determined to show she’s worthy of it.

“Roxy, this is Merlin, a fellow Old Member of the House, as I believe you call it.” Percival waves his hand vaguely in Merlin’s direction and watches as she smiles delightedly.

“Really?” She exclaims. “Oh, how wonderful!” Turning to her uncle mischeviously, she grins and says, “Perhaps I’ll finally be able to persuade you of the quality of the House Port!” And it’s so unexpected that Merlin chokes out a laugh and returns her smile with an uplifted quirk of his lips.

Percival and Merlin open the doors for her and watch as she steps inside, eyes bright and curious, taking in the richness of the furnishings and the wealth of state of the art technology she sees. She’s led down corridor after corridor, passing a library that she’s pretty certain takes up an entire wing of the manor, a forty-foot long dining hall, and to her great delight, a salle d’armes from which she hears the distinctive sounds of clashing foils and sabres. Percival asks whether any of the other trainees are there yet as they reach the steel grey of the dormitory doors in one of the many underground floors.

“Two,” is Merlin’s neutral reply. “A young lady called Amelia, and Arthur’s candidate-"

“-So some sort of stuck-up snob, more than likely.” Percival interjects, and Roxy laughs softly, shaking her head.

“I can handle that.”

“Of course you can.”

“If you’d let me finish, Percival?” Merlin asks pointedly. Percival gestures for Merlin to go on. “A young man around your age.”

“What’s his name?” She asks.

“Charlie Hesketh.”

It’s like she’s gone deaf, all of a sudden. The lights in the corridor blur into a single golden sun and she suddenly realises her nails are digging sharply into the palms of her hands. Her breath leaves her so immediately she feels as though she’s been kicked in the chest by a horse and been sent flying, crashing, into a wall. There’s bile, sharp as acid, rising in her throat and she wants to scream.

“Roxy! ROXY!” Someone’s shaking her shoulders and she blinks open eyes she didn’t even know she’d closed. It’s her uncle, warm hands placed firmly on her shoulders, a frown etched deeply into his face as he keeps her trembling frame in place. “Roxy! Are you alright?”

She takes a deep breath and nods slowly. He’s not here, so she’s alright. But she’s going to have to share a dormitory with him and other people and the thought is almost enough to send her fleeing back to her impossibly constrained civilian life. And as much as she never, ever, ever, wants to see Charlie Hesketh again, she equally can’t abide the idea of wasting the opportunity to show that she’s more capable than he or any of the others will be, so she takes another deep breath and meets her uncle’s eyes steadily.

And then he asks her something which almost breaks her. “Do you know him?” It takes every bit of self control she has, every fibre in her very being, to keep herself together and not show him, not show Merlin the soul-destroying fear that’s taken her in its vicious grip.

“Yes. Though by God I wish I didn’t.”

Her uncle’s very far from stupid, and by the slight widening of his eyes and the almost painful tightening of his fingers on her shoulders, she knows he’s read between the lines, and she can’t bear it, can’t bear Percival’s pity and the sudden weight of Merlin’s gaze on her, so she softly kisses her uncle’s cheek, and keeping a firm grip on her bag, walks straight into the dormitory without looking back.

“Merlin,” Percival begins shakily, “Please, don’t let her out of your sight.”

_As if I could,_  Merlin thinks, the image of her walking away from them so decisively burning itself into his mind, before he catches himself and swallows, unaware that Percival is watching him carefully.

Merlin turns to Percival.

“My office?”

 

* * *

 

 

The door’s locked and both of them are nursing a much needed whisky in their hands, although it’s only four in the afternoon. Percival glances impatiently at the monitor screens as they flicker from black to live. With a few tapped commands into his keyboard, Merlin pulls up the live feed and audio from the dormitory, and the Kingsmen turn their full attention to the screen.

Roxy’s packing her things away. She’s chosen the bed next to Amelia, and Charlie’s looking her up and down, and Merlin sees the exact moment recognition makes his leering expression even uglier. Merlin’s jaw clenches, and he takes a quick sip of his whisky, glancing across at Percival. The other Kingsman is tense, his expression nervous, knowing without a doubt that he’s not going to like what he’s going to see.

Charlie comes up behind Roxy as she’s placing a demure set of pajamas neatly on her pillow. He stops so he’s not only breathing down her neck, but trapped her against the bed. She freezes, and Merlin sees her twist her fingers into the sheets to hide their trembling.

“Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here, Roxy-doxy!” Percival snarls at the insult and Merlin fights the sudden wave of nausea that threatens to send him to his knees.

“Leave me alone, Hesketh.” She doesn’t turn around.

“Oh, come on, Roxy! You’ve got to tell me what a little girl like you is doing with men like us. Or was one stint in a dorm with a group of guys in the RAF over the long vac not enough? Your hair’s even like it was then, so wild. If sex hair is your way of letting people know you’re up for it, we-ell, let me tell you, my little spitfire-“

“Don’t you _dare_  call me that.” Roxy hisses, her voice low, glancing at Amelia, but quickly coming to the conclusion that she won’t get any help from that quarter. Amelia is pretending to ignore everything that’s going on, because her brief is to observe, even though Merlin suddenly wishes she’d break her role and help Roxy, he knows that’s not going to happen. And he fights the all-too familiar surge of helplessness that he also feels when one of his agents is in danger. He’s there, he’s watching everything, hearing everything, hearing all the cries of pain and the last words before death, and he has to suffer through it without showing anyone, because he’s Merlin and it’s his job to reassure everyone else, even when he knows it’s futile.

And all of a sudden Charlie’s hands are all over her and Merlin clearly sees her choke back a sob and he can read her face so clearly, sees her shame and her fear - god, he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone so terrified before - and her despair and her thoughts that this is ruining her chances of becoming Lancelot, before her expression shutters. Merlin’s gripped by the thought that she’s given up, but then she stamps down on his instep with her boot and elbows him in the ribs as he yelps in pain and lets go of her. She spins and then she’s downed him in the blink of an eye with a well placed knee to his crotch.

“Yes, Roxy!” Percival shouts. “You brave, brilliant, _brilliant_  girl.” Merlin sighs with relief, his heartbeat pounding deafeningly in his ears.

On the screen, Roxy crouches down beside the groaning Charlie and enunciates primly, but coldly, so coldly that Merlin decides he doesn’t ever want to hear such a chilling sound pass through her lips ever again. “I sleep with a knife on me, so I wouldn’t ever try something like what you did at the RAF, Hesketh. If you touch me again, _Captain_ , I will _end_  you.” And in that moment Merlin knows she’s as deadly as any of the Kingsmen.

And then she turns away and continues her unpacking as though nothing’s happened, but Merlin sees the small signs that give her away - her trembling fingers as she lifts out a delicate golden necklace and puts it on her bedside table, her quick, furtive wipes at her eyes when she turns to put her clothes in her cupboard.

The two Kingsmen watch the footage a little longer to make sure nothing else kicks off, but it soon becomes apparent that Charlie is in no state to do anything to Roxy. When Merlin switches the screen off, Percival suddenly grabs the wastepaper basket and retches into it. Merlin wordlessly passes him tissues and another glass of whisky, also pouring a generous measure for himself and downing it in a single swallow.

“Dear god,” Merlin whispers when they’re both seated again. He looks at Percival. “Did she tell you anything before this?”

“No. But now we know he was at Oxford with her, two years above if we do the maths, and he assaulted her at the very least.” Percival replies, pale, voice broken. “How could anyone do this? God, it’s disgusting, and if I knew it wouldn’t put more strain on Roxy because then she’d have to testify in front of all the Kingsmen I’d go straight to Arthur and demand he choose another candidate. No-one, no-one hurts her and gets away with it.”

“I know, Perce, I know.” He can only commiserate, but words aren’t enough, fuck, can never be enough in a situation like this. “That was as bad as watching Lancelot die.”

“That’s why, god, Merlin, please, just- keep her away from him as much as possible.”

“You know I can’t be seen to be favouring her, Perce.”

“My god, Merlin, it wouldn’t be favouring her at all - it would be evening things out!” Percival shouts angrily. Merlin leaps from his chair and places his hands firmly on the other man’s shoulders.

“Listen, Perce, you know that, and I know that. But Arthur doesn’t.”

“Damn it, you’re right.” Percival chokes out.

There’s silence for a long time.

Then - “But your word, Merlin, please.”

“You have it.” Merlin replies immediately.

“Thank you.”

And then he’s once again left alone to try and understand everything that’s just happened. Charlie was her commanding officer when they were both part of the Oxford Corps of the RAF. And he did _something_  to her. And now they’re both competing for the same position. He never wants to see that expression on her face again. He can’t imagine what she’s feeling, can’t comprehend it, doesn’t want to, because he knows it will send him mad with horror. And yet there’s a fierce spark of admiration, and god, it’s not because she appeared in that idiotic car of Percival’s with hair tousled from the wind and pink cheeks and bright eyes, because she made him laugh when he didn’t expect it at all. Merlin can only feel awed at her bravery. She’s the most courageous person he’s ever met.

What on earth possessed him to take her delicate hand in his and bow over it?

 

 


	2. Part the Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your responses to the last chapter!
> 
> I do hope you enjoy this next instalment.
> 
> Any recognisable dialogue is taken from the film.

Part the Second

* * *

 

 

When Eggsy walks into the dormitory Roxy knows, immediately, that she can make an ally of him, dressed as he is in such a way that makes Charlie and his two cronies, Rufus and Digby, snigger. They introduce themselves and from the way he walks, the way he carries himself, she thinks he’s ex-marines. His handshake is firm, and his smile without guile. 

“Ignore them,” she says to him as Charlie saunters up to them and begins taunting him in a drawling voice. But Eggsy fires back, and she laughs, happy to see she won’t be alone in bringing the arrogant ponce down a peg or two. 

She jumps as the door opens and measured footsteps sound across the floor.

It’s Merlin, so they all fall in, snapping to attention, feet shoulder width apart, hands behind their backs, looking straight ahead. The Kingsman considers them all in turn, eyes flicking over them impassively, and she clenches her fingers into fists where no-one can see because his gaze makes her feel so exposed. It’s as though he can read everything she is from a single, penetrating look.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Merlin.” he says, looking at them all sternly. “You are about to embark on what is probably the most dangerous job interview in the world. One of you, and only one of you, will become the next Lancelot.” 

He takes the black bag lying innocuously on the bed nearest to him, and Roxy can’t help the slight knot of fear that kneads itself into her stomach as she realises what it is. Merlin’s tone is deliberately nonchalant as he continues. “Can anybody tells me what this is?” All of them except Eggsy raise their hands in a single, fluid motion.

Merlin gestures to Charlie, the action seemingly at random. But Roxy’s observed enough of the way he moves to know that nothing he does is anything less than deliberate. “Yes?” He says.

“Body bag, sir.” Charlie replies neutrally.

As part of her wonders why Merlin chose Charlie to answer his question, Merlin indicates that he already knows who they all are. “Correct.” He says. “Charlie, isn’t it?” Though it’s worded as a question, Roxy knows it’s a statement. 

“Yes, sir.” At Charlie’s cocky expression at being singled out, Roxy thinks she understands. This is Merlin’s way of showing both of them - her and Charlie - that he knows a lot more about them that he’s letting on. It’s a warning of sorts, not to step out of line, specifically aimed at Charlie. It’s an unexpected bit of reassurance, and the flicker in Merlin’s expression when she meets his eyes makes her feel slightly more confident about the whole situation she finds herself in. 

“Good.” Merlin pauses, the slightest furrow appearing in his brow, something she soon comes to understand means he is deathly serious. He is such a formidable presence that he doesn’t have to raise his tone of voice in the slightest to make his point. “In a moment, you will each collect a body bag. You will write the details of your next of kin on that bag. This represents your acknowledgement of the risks you are about to face, as well as your agreement to strict confidentiality, which, _incidentally,_ if you break-” his voice becomes even more dangerous “- will result in you and your next of kin being in that bag.” He allows his gaze to fall on each of them in turn. “Do you understand?”

They nod in reply, and Merlin seems satisfied, so he dismisses them before leaving the room as quietly and as elegantly as he came in.

Roxy takes the marker and prints _P. Mainwaring-Morton_ on the bag in neat letters and then shoves it underneath her bed so she doesn’t have to look at it. 

 

* * *

 

 

The instantaneous snap of an LED light appearing into existence like a distress flare is what wakes her, she realises. Then the sound of panicked scrabbling. Digby - at least she thinks it’s Digby - stands on his bed, springs squeaking. Roxy reaches behind her to turn her own light on and that’s when she notices the water, inky black and rising fast. 

Disorientated, her body responds faster than her mind and she’s standing upright as the water reaches her thighs before she’s conscious of having moved. She looks at the others, seeing similar panic on their faces.

They’re in a dormitory and they’re going to drown, unless they think of something.

_Fast._

A half-remembered line from an RAF physics textbook makes her shout, “Loo snorkels!” She only has time to register Charlie, of all people, agreeing with her before the water is lapping at her shoulders and she has to swim. 

Underwater, everything is a curious metal blue, no doubt from the LEDs and the utilitarian decor of the dormitory, and the other recruits are darker shadows, writhing, twisting, all of them fighting the burning sensation that begins to creep into their lungs, a prelude to suffocation. Because she’s half the size of the others, she’s the one at the greatest disadvantage, both in terms of her physical strength, affecting the speed at which she can swim, and because her lungs are smaller. 

She grits her teeth and pulls herself through the water, determined to reach the showers on the far side of the dormitory. In the low light, fighting the pressure in her head and lungs, it’s difficult to unscrew the shower-heads and plunge them into the toilet bowl and push them round the U-bend, but she manages it just as she thinks she might fall unconscious from the dizzying pain in her chest.

She takes the shower pipe into her mouth and sucks in a mouthful of air and the sudden rush of oxygen, the release of pressure in her lungs is almost enough to make her faint. Only adrenaline and the vaguely registered fact that she’s able to breathe keep her coherent. She focuses on taking measured breaths, slowly bringing her heart-rate down to a normal rate after the shock of the last minute has kicked it into the thundering pace of a galloping horse. 

Above her, Eggsy is swimming powerfully through the water, and she wants to sigh in relief, because it would appear that he’s finally come to join them and create his own snorkel, but relief morphs into confusion as he keeps going past them and heads straight for the mirrored far wall. Before she can make angry gestures at him in a futile attempt at getting him to turn around, Eggsy punches the mirror.

As it begins to shatter, cracks spreading like veins, she realises - 

It’s a two way mirror.

Which means they can get out. 

And then she’s swept, torn from her oxygen as the sudden shattering to diamond shards of the mirror creates a current, carried, unable to see, tossed about, hitting the other recruits and being whacked by them as they limbs flail around. 

She hits the tiled floor hard, and as she turns her head she can just see the last of the water escaping through drainage flaps in the bottom corners of the room. Groaning at the thought of bruises that are undoubtedly mottling her skin at that very moment, she sees a pair of legs attired in grey suit trousers. Frowning, she looks up, blinking the moisture away from her eyes, and, between gasped, ragged breaths of air, she realises it’s Merlin. 

The Kingsman waits until they’ve caught their breaths - slightly - before addressing them. “Congratulations on completing your first task.” He looks at them in his usual, impassive considering manner, and she suddenly realises that her pyjamas - a white t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts - are soaked through, plastered to her skin.

She may as well have been naked.

The others realise this as well and she feels the sudden, uncomfortable weight of their ogling stares on her, lingering on the curve of her breasts - still trembling from adrenaline and exertion - and on her legs. 

Unease and disgust combine with the adrenaline and make her tremble violently. Others might feel pride or satisfaction at the blatant appreciation and lust rolling off the male recruits in waves, but she doubts that she’ll ever be comfortable at being looked at as a purely sexual object. Pressing her mouth into a thin line, she raises her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Resting her chin on her knees, she listens as Merlin continues.

“Charlie, Roxy,” - he’s gentlemanly enough to keep his gaze on her face - “well done.” There’s a fierce swell of joy in her heart at the praise, even though it is shared with Charlie. “For those of you who are still confused… if you can get a breathing tube round the U-bend of a toilet, you have an unlimited air supply. Simple physics, worth remembering.” As he explains, Roxy suddenly understands Merlin not only intends to test them, to push them further than they’ve ever been pushed before, but that he also intends to guide them - be a mentor. 

He wants them to do well.

Whilst he’s congratulating Eggsy for spotting the two-way mirror, she ponders the enigma Merlin’s laid before her. From what she can see, he’s a private man, difficult to impress, but, she suspects, with a softer side to him.

And then he says something that is like a bucket of iced water over her head. If she wasn’t already trembling with cold and adrenaline, the cold rebuke, the sense of utter disappointment in his tone would have made her shiver. “You can all wipe those smirks off your faces. Because as far as I’m concerned, every single one of you has failed.” She doesn’t understand. “You all forgot the most important thing… teamwork,” Merlin concludes grimly, gesturing behind him.

Roxy’s breath catches in her throat.

Amelia’s lying on the floor of the dormitory.

And she’s not moving.

 

* * *

 

All the remaining recruits are moved to another dorm, eerily identical to the one they were in previously, and given standard issue pyjamas and clothes. The mood is just as grim and as tense as Merlin’s curt dismissal of them earlier on, after the flooding of the dormitory and - she can barely comprehend the thought - Amelia’s drowning - because all of them were too focused on themselves. 

It’s the roughest recalibrating of her perception of herself she thinks she’s ever received.

She, of all people - who prides herself on being kind, on caring about others as well, _should_ have realised Amelia wasn’t with them. But she can only plead the fact that she understands, now, that her instincts, her emotions, overpowered her thinking through of the situation. It’s humiliating, to face the fact that she’s become complacent - complacent in her beliefs in her own abilities, in her own moral qualities.

She wasn’t nearly observant enough, and the price for that was a human life.

It’s a terrifying awakening.

Hearing the phrase _the most dangerous job interview in the world_ and being confronted with its reality are two very different things. She vows, as she lies in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, too wound up still to even contemplate sleep, that she will take each test as seriously as she can. It’s the only way she will prove herself capable of the position of Lancelot and keep herself alive. 

Despite her reeling thoughts, the deep claws of guilt that tear themselves remorselessly into her stomach, the thought of abandoning the recruitment and going home never crosses her mind. She’ll take danger and the very real possibility of her own death every single time over being paraded by her mother (that vague, distant, immaculately coiffed presence) to various rich, unintelligent young men who’ve spent their time at university wooing their way through beautiful airhead after beautiful airhead. Is it so wrong, so unusual to want more than that from life just because she’s a woman? 

As selfish as her reasons for applying for the position of Lancelot might sound - she just wants to make something of herself - she doesn’t believe any of the others have any better motivations. The idea of duty to her country is nothing more than a nebulous, half-formed ideal in the back of her mind. She wants to do her best, make something of herself, choose her own path in life instead of having it foisted upon her by distant parents, but the true ramifications of serving and potentially dying for her country currently elude her. It’s something too intangible to grasp.

Why then, did she agree to be Percival’s candidate for Lancelot?

Because he’s the only person she’s ever trusted.

Because if he tells her she’d be a good fit, she’s inclined to believe him. Because she wants to be a part of something good and useful. But she’s quickly learning that the reality is far more complex, far more psychologically demanding than the stories of Kingsman she’s grown up hearing, spun like heroic legends of old.   

As she replays the events of the previous hour over and over again in her mind, she suddenly realises that the two way mirror and Merlin’s presence behind it must have meant he was watching them. He watched, let them figure it out for themselves. Let them forget about Amelia. 

They will either succeed by their own hands or will simply take enough rope from Merlin to hang themselves with.

It’s a sobering thought, one that all too clearly shows the standard that is expected of them.

Succeed, and live. Fail, and die.

It’s really that simple.

She already knows she’s not going to sleep well tonight.

 

* * *

 

_Two hours prior_

He’s in his office, the live feed from the recruits’ dormitory flashing on the computer screens. They went to sleep about an hour ago, and all is quiet, the lights switched off, but he knows Amelia will still be awake. A quick glance at the left hand monitor confirms it, and he steeples his fingers, elbows resting in front of the keyboard.

He has a decision to make.

The idea of having an inside person, reporting directly back to him, throughout the recruitment process, is a relatively new idea, originating in the Australian branch of Kingsman about fifteen years ago. There’s no fixed point at which the fake-candidate must make a suitably noticeable departure from the training programme - it’s completely down to the judgement of the Kingsman running the recruitment, and relies on his assessment of the group of candidates.

From the files his fellow knights have given him, and from his own observations, Merlin knows they’re a pretty arrogant group, excepting Roxy and Eggsy, and, to a lesser extent, Tristan’s candidate Henry.

The question now - and it’s a pretty important, delicate consideration - is whether to give them the benefit of the doubt or to hammer home his statement that at Kingsman, you truly can’t fuck around, or someone ends up dead. 

As some of them seem to have taken his speech about the body bags rather lightly, he’s inclined to order Amelia out sooner rather than later, and the night’s underwater task will be a suitably dramatic setting.

He taps out the command on his keyboard, opening a private comms line to Amelia, whom he’d kitted out with an earpiece, nigh invisible to the naked eye.

“Amelia,” he says, and the sudden spike in her vitals he can see on one of the monitors is the only indication she gives that she’s heard him. “I want you out tonight, during the underwater task.” Amelia pretends to roll over, disguising her hum of acknowledgement. 

This confirmed, he brings his mug of tea - earl grey, with only the slightest dash of cream, no sugar - to his lips and takes a leisurely sip, and lets his mind wander through all the candidates. He admits to being rather surprised by Galahad’s choice. Oh, he knows Harry Hart has always had a bit of a thing about underdogs, but that he seems only to have made his choice in the last twenty-four hours makes Merlin nervous. The other knights selected their protégés far earlier. In some cases, like Arthur or Percival, they’ve been training their candidates for years. Merlin worries that Eggsy is woefully unprepared, and that it will only lead to disappointment. Some Marines training does not a Kingsman make.

More interesting is Roxy’s decision to befriend Eggsy, to make an ally of him. He’d already known that Roxy wasn’t one to care about antiquated notions of class - anyone raised by Alistair Percival Mainwaring-Morton was unlikely to be snobbish in the least - but the fact that she chose to overtly offer her hand, an unambiguous declaration of alliance, painting both of them as direct opponents and therefore threats to Charlie and his followers, points to an intriguing capacity for strategy on her part. He suspects Roxy has no intention of pulling her punches, of hiding in the middle of the pack. She’s going to prove to those who think she isn’t capable, for whatever reason, that she’s better than them, that she has every intention of seeing this through to the very end.

He’s reminded of Percival’s statement that _she’s got more balls than the whole of the Oxford rowing team put together,_ and he’s inclined to believe that his fellow knight has the right of it. 

It’s a deeper insight into the way she thinks, and only confirms the impression of her he received this afternoon. She’s not one to back down from a challenge, and he has the entertaining inkling that she’ll tackle everything in her path with a certain panache and effortless manners. No matter her fears, she’ll push through them, but he knows just as well as any of the other Kingsmen that dealing with fears has to be handled very carefully.

It’s the part of the recruitment process all the Kingsmen are the most wary of, and for good reason. Fears are very personal things, and for that reason, are tackled last in the recruitment process, in private, rather than in front of the other candidates, because such a thing could easily be quite harmful. It would smack more of humiliation rather than what it is meant to be: a lesson in the controlling of fear when faced with their worst nightmare.

But that won’t be for some weeks at least, and so he doesn’t need to worry about that now, much less which candidates such a lesson would apply to. 

Sighing, he returns his attention to the reports lying on his desk, and considers what remarks he still needs to add to his preliminary notes on each recruit.  

Between the two of them, Eggsy and Roxy are, in all likelihood, the most unusual, explosive things to happen to Kingsman. He has no idea what the end result will be, but if they start working as a team, as they appear to be willing to do, he knows the others will have a very hard time trying to beat them. He’s self-aware enough to know, though, that at this moment in time, such a sentiment of his could be due to the fact that out of the whole cohort, he’s been most impressed by Roxy. 

Indeed, when he strode into the dormitory earlier in the evening, her reaction to his callous handling of the body bags, designed to intimidate, to sober them, struck him. He’d seen the flicker of nervousness in her eyes, in the slight tightening of her posture, before she’d mastered her expression. In a strange way, it reassured him - it would be a strange candidate indeed who did not fear death. In this case, instead of her nervousness being an expression of cowardice, it was an expression of logic and common sense, because she didn’t back down, and he’s more gratified than he can understand by this. He wonders how many examples he’ll find of her brilliant bravery before he ceases to be anything but awed by it.

That singular moment when he’d spoken to Charlie, too, when her lips had curled into a smile of thankfulness before resuming a neutral expression, has left a greater mark on him than he’d realised at the time. How is it that they seem to be able to read each other so clearly? He can’t understand it, can’t explain it, this wonderful, unsettling way they seem to be able to comprehend and communicate with one another, so deeply, so immediately.    

As he drinks his tea in measured swallows, he reflects that, in all his years as a Kingsman, he’s never been so impressed by a recruit, from the outset, as he is by her. 

It’s the safest statement his mind can phrase.        

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do tell me what you thought and leave a review!


	3. Chapter The Third

Part the Third

 

* * *

 

 

Breakfast is simple - scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice and earl grey - but the atmosphere is slightly more relaxed than the previous night. It’s strange, this first meal in the conservatory opposite the library, warmed by the morning sunlight. This sense of normalcy feels strange. She could be anywhere, really, but then she looks at what she’s wearing, the overalls and the combat boots, and she remembers. The events of the previous night feel like a hallucination, and she knows her brain has - not blocked the memories, precisely - locked them away so she doesn’t have to deal with them yet. The - admittedly small - amount of sleep she got last night has helped, and she feels as though some sense of her natural equilibrium has returned.

She’s not entirely certain how she feels about her pinstriped grey overall suit. Though she’s essentially covered from neck to ankle, the garment does nothing to hide her form. It makes her - especially as the only woman - aware of her body, aware of the way she moves, in a way she’s rarely experienced outside the dance studio. She doesn’t know what has happened to the clothes in her suitcase, and Merlin hasn’t appeared to tell them, so she supposes she may as well make the most of it.

At least the others are also in tweed or checked overalls as well, and the grumbles and swearing she heard this morning at the number of buttons they had to do up makes her feel as though they’re all in the same boat. One thing she is grateful for, however, is the boots. They’re standard military issue, a reassuring constant in the sudden emotional and mental upheaval of the past twenty-four hours. She knows exactly how to tie them so she doesn’t get blisters, and the remembered ritual from her time in the university RAF corps does a lot to restore her confidence.

She’s nervous, of course, she has absolutely no idea what to expect, but she’s feeling relatively calm. There’s absolutely no point in worrying herself unnecessarily.

As she gracefully eats her scrambled eggs, the conversation around her turns to what training they’ve had. Charlie’s boasting about his time in the RAF when Eggsy turns to her and asks, “What about you, Roxy?”

“Oxford, and the RAF.”

Eggsy snorts something through his orange juice that sounds suspiciously like _I knew it_  and part of her wonders what it means. She doesn’t think her time in the RAF and at Oxford have defined her. Shaped part of her character, certainly, and been witness to unique experiences, but define her? No. She also doesn’t believe her character is in any way very similar to any of the others.

Then, because such is the inevitable way of things, Henry says, with an astonishing naivety, “So the same as Charlie, then.”

“Yes.” She shrugs.

And because the tension between her and Charlie has evidently not gone unnoticed - as if she could ever expect it to be, in a room full of trainee spies - Eggsy surmises, “The two of you knew each other before this, didn’t you?”

She fights to keep her face impassive, taking another mouthful of tea, and nods. If she thinks about it, she hasn’t exactly been hiding her animosity, speaking politely but coldly to him when she has no choice, and ignoring him when she does. His reaction to her has been oddly subdued, no doubt due to her kneeing him in the crotch. She hopes he’ll stay out of her way, but she doesn’t think it’ll last. He’s too arrogant and she has no intention of keeping to the middle of the pack.

“So that’s why Charlie was going on about some time you threw him out of a plane in the showers last night,” Eggsy frowns, tilting his head at her, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Now that sounds like a story I want to hear. Do tell, Roxy.”

She sniggers at the memory, and her smirk is pure, mischevious evil. “It was my first year at Oxford, and I’d only been flying a Cessna for about six weeks when he made a bet with me. If I could beat his speed record, he’d go hang-gliding clothed only in a massive pink flag - the colour deeply offended his sense of masculinity - in front of his commanding officer, and if he won I’d have to streak naked through the pub everyone in the corps used to go to.”

“What happened?”

Roxy’s smirk widens. “I won, of course. Shaved a clean ten-point-two-six seconds off his time. His commanding officer put him on latrine duty for four weeks and the next time we did a parachute jump he deliberately almost broke my leg.”

Henry frowns. “Is that why the two of you hate each other so much?”

Suddenly, she’s sick of it all. She bites down the hysterical laugh that threatens to erupt from her lips. Will she never be able to forget what happened? Move on with her life? Banish the spectre to the abyss of amnesia, where the memories belong? Grimly, she asks the two of them, “Do you have sisters?” At their confused nods, she places her cutlery down on her plate, stands, and continues with a bitter smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “Don’t ever let him near them.”

Ignoring them as they stare after her, she walks out of the conservatory and sits on one of the sofas in the library, knees huddled to her chest, blankly gazing at the leather-bound books in the oak-panelled bookcases opposite. She doesn’t want to see what they think of her - she doesn’t know them nearly well enough to be comfortable about what she’s inadvertently let slip. She does her breathing exercises, focusing on the comforting smell of leather and wood and books until the grandfather clock chimes the hour.

 

* * *

 

“As some of you will have learned last night… teamwork is paramount here at Kingsman,” Merlin stands on the balcony above them. He’s put a Barbour jacket on over his customary jumper, and that gives Roxy just the slightest inkling that whatever test he’s got planned for them now, it’s going to be highly physical and highly demanding. ”Which is why you're going to pick a puppy,” he continues, and Roxy fights to keep the sudden grin off her face. She thinks of all the dogs her uncle has at home, and she knows she’s going to enjoy this. Though Merlin’s attire still makes her wary, she heaves a sigh of mental relief. She’s trained dogs before, and she wonders how much of her upbringing has been geared towards preparing for Kingsman aside from the obvious things, like her fencing training and her time in the RAF.

“Wherever you go, your dog goes.You will care for it. You will teach it. And by the time it's fully trained, so will you be.” She detects just the slightest hint of humour in his last words, and she bites back a laugh. His offhand _those of you who are still here, that is_  doesn’t frighten her in the way she expects it to. His references to death, she notices, are carefully circumspect, sometimes serious and other times more lighthearted, but always euphemistic.

Percival said to her a long time ago, after her first pony had to be put down due to colic when she was eight, when she’d been bawling her eyes out, unable to understand why nothing she and the vet had done had helped, that _sometimes you can't do anything, Roxy_. _Sometimes you can only watch, and mourn_. It’s Merlin’s method of coping with the deaths of his agents, she realises, and she shudders. The thought of being helpless like that…

His impassive gaze sweeps over all of them in his usual manner, until it gets to her. She doesn’t know if it’s because her newfound deductions can somehow be read on her face, in the slight tilt of her head, in the softness in her eyes - a softness she isn’t aware she’s radiating - but whatever he sees, his eyes flash with something - acknowledgement, vulnerability. She’s not entirely certain she wants to be able to read him like that. It’s too much. She suddenly feels raw, exposed ( _but then so is he_ ) and something passes between them, a deep sense of affinity, and she can do more than read him. She can understand him. She feels as though she knows him somehow, really knows him. It’s unsettling, to say the least, this swarm of tangled emotions she feels rising in her throat.

He tears his gaze away from her, and says in a tone that is slightly more brusque than his normal one, betraying his agitation, to her, anyway - she doesn’t think any of the other recruits catch it, “Do you understand?” They all nod, but don’t move, waiting for the explicit command, which comes with a sweeping arm gesture to indicate the metal kennels all the puppies are sitting quietly in.

She makes for the puppies, eyes scanning quickly over them. She discards the pug immediately - that’s got to be Merlin’s idea of a joke, as it’s far too small and won’t be getting any bigger, and is not easy to train. She doesn’t like german shepherds - they’re too aggressive for her tastes, and is just about resigning herself to a border collie or a retriever (she’s got nothing against them, but they’re not for her) when she sees an elegant, almost dainty black poodle, and she smiles.

None of the others would ever think to go for a poodle, because of the current reputation they have as vanity pets, because the likes of Charlie see them as too girly, but she knows they’re highly intelligent and easy to train. She opens the cage and the black puppy steps daintily out at Roxy’s coaxing. The others are laughing and joking, and the sense of fun about this strikes her as her new puppy licks her hand and barks softly, intelligent brown eyes considering her. Roxy giggles, actually giggles, and curls her fingers into the poodle’s fur.

Merlin lets them have their fun for a minute or two, before asking them to fall in again. He makes a note of which puppy they’ve all chosen, and Roxy notes with dismay that Eggsy’s gone for the pug.

“A poodle?” Eggsy says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“What?” She replies archly. Then she takes pity on him and explains her reasoning. “They're gun dogs. Oldest working breed. Easy to train.” She lets that sink in, before she continues, in the same arch tone. “A pug?”

“It's a bulldog, innit?” He replies, and she doesn’t know whether to burst out laughing or groan. She shakes her head slightly, aware that Charlie, standing on Eggsy’s other side, won’t pass up an opportunity to provoke either of them, so she keeps her part of the conversation quiet.

“It'll get bigger, though, won't it?” He continues hopefully, and again she has to shake her head. He swears in response, and she has to bite down hard on her tongue when he catches Charlie smirking smugly at him, resisting the urge to punch Arthur’s candidate smack in the mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Her earlier prediction turns out to be correct. Merlin has indeed planned something fiendishly physical for them all, as the devilishly amused glint in his eyes tells her, and it turns out to be a turn about the ten kilometre obstacle course in the Kingsman grounds.

She’s never been the best person at running - she’s always found it rather boring - but she’s probably in the best physical condition she’s ever been, and her dancing training means she’s no stranger to endurance tests.

That’s not to say she doesn’t find it difficult - because she does, but there would be no point in doing it if it were easy. So she grits her teeth and ignores the way her twenty kilo pack bites into her shoulders, and focuses on keeping stride with her puppy, which she’s decided to call Syrah. The black puppy responds well to her gentle commands, only leaving her heel to yap playfully at the ropes she has to climb, licking her face in encouragement when she lands roughly after slightly mistiming her jump down from a five metre wall halfway through the course.

She’s kept Merlin’s comments about teamwork in the back of her mind, and so when Eggsy’s pack gets caught in the barbed wire fifty centimetres from the ground as they’re all crawling along on their bellies, noses and mouths close enough to the mud to taste it, she doesn’t hesitate to turn back and help him untangle himself. Henry’s only ten metres in front of them, so he also turns back to help, and they finish the course as a trio.

Eggsy shows them how to incorporate parkour into the way they tackle some of the obstacles, and Henry turns out to be very good at anything involving water. When they have to manouvre a raft across a river and one of Merlin’s minions is firing a water cannon at them, Henry quietly and efficiently directs them into manouvring the raft to avoid being shot at.

The puppies, her poodle Syrah and Henry’s Scottish Deerhound Rodolphus, help Eggsy’s pug JB, Syrah taking JB by the scruff to deposit him on the raft. Roxy’s certain she’s imagined Syrah’s elegant sniff of disapproval at the pug, and she doesn’t wait for Syrah to get on the raft with them, instead using the opportunity to train her further, whistling her established signal for follow. Her puppy’s tail wags excitedly as she jumps into the frigid river and swims next to them, her wet nose almost touching Roxy’s extended, guiding hand as they punt their way down the river, swerving and managing to avoid the worst of the water cannon fire.

It’s Henry who figures out the pattern of the strikes, and discretely taps out the pattern in morse on the stick he’s using as a makeshift punting oar, and so they’re able to work as a team. And it really is worth it, she realises, as they finish in front of Charlie and Rufus, coming to attention in front of Merlin, soaking wet, hair streaked with mud, (she doesn’t even want to think about where else the mud has got to) muscles aching, laughing with relief and adrenaline, grinning so widely her jaw aches.

Merlin’s approving nod as he glances at his watch to note their time sends a wave of euphoria through her so strong she almost sways. Though Merlin doesn’t say anything, the slight upward lift to his lips and glint in his eyes tells her he’s impressed, and she catches herself, disguising it by pretending Eggsy’s slap on her shoulder is stronger than it is, asking herself with no small amount of alarm when Merlin’s approval has become so important to her in that way. She’s vaguely coming to the conclusion that she doesn’t only want him to approve of her capabilities; it’s more than that, but how much more she’s reluctant to think about. It’s _something_ , something tangible that makes her heart kick up a notch when they catch each others’ eyes, when they read each other - no, _communicate_  so evocatively, without saying a word. They’ve never had a proper conversation, not even in the company of others.

And yet… and _yet_  -

* * *

 


	4. Part The Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay on this chapter; things have been pretty intense for me recently. I will get round to replying to comments etc relatively soon - I haven't forgotten about them and they really do make my day, so please do keep them coming, the encouragement and concrit really is tremendously helpful. 
> 
> This chapter was difficult to get right, and I love it, but I'm still not completely sure the events in this instalment should take place at this point in the narrative (bearing in mind that Roxy and Merlin still haven't had an actual conversation involving words rather than body language and non-verbal cues). 
> 
> Anyway, may I present, without further ado, Part the Fourth.

Part the Fourth

* * *

 

_Four weeks later_

“Raise your hands if you know how to dance formally,” Merlin tells the recruits who are standing to attention in the Kingsman HQ ballroom. All of them except Eggsy raise their hands, making Charlie and two of the others snicker. Merlin quells them with a sharp glare that silences them immediately. “You will keep your hands up as I call out the names of dances, and if you don’t know them, lower your hands.”

“I suppose you can do all of them?” Charlie grumbles. 

“Of course,” Merlin replies smoothly. “Why else would I be teaching and assessing you in this?” That shuts Charlie up, and Roxy can’t keep a smirk from twitching her lips. Merlin notices her eyes are as bright as they were the first time they met, and he suddenly recalls Percival’s words that have haunted him at night far more than he cares to acknowledge. He can tell she’s looking forward to this, and as he gazes at his recruits, she’s one of the only ones to return his stare evenly. “Right, then.” He rubs his hands together and plants his feet shoulder-width apart. “Jive.”

“Why would we need to know how to jive?” Digby mutters. “It’s not like we’re ever going to be in a situation where we’ll need to know how to _jive._ ”

Merlin ignores him and repeats, “Jive.” No-one lowers their hand. “Reeling. Charleston. Quickstep.” He pauses as Hugo lowers his. “Salsa. Samba.” Digby lets his arm drop with a sigh. “Foxtrot.” Rufus lowers his hand as though embarrassed. “Waltz.” Merlin continues, letting a smirk stretch his lips. The other two drop their arms, leaving only Roxy and Charlie with their hands still up. Charlie notices and glances across at the only female recruit, grinning slightly. Merlin can see that he thinks that just because they’re the only two left, he thinks he’s going to be able to demonstrate one of the dances the others can’t do with Roxy. A muscle in Merlin’s jaw clenches. _Not if I have anything to say about it._ He blinks once, deliberately, to focus himself.

“Viennese waltz,” Merlin continues. Unsurprisingly considering their backgrounds, neither Roxy nor Charlie lower their arms. “Tango.” Then, meeting Roxy’s eyes, he says with a smirk and a wicked glint in his eye, “ _Argentine_ tango.” 

“Oh come on,” Charlie groans, lowering his right hand, but Merlin pays him no real attention, enjoying the flash of surprise and relief in Roxy’s eyes.

“You’ll be taught the argentine tango first, gents, because everything afterwards should be a piece of cake for you lot.” He pauses to let the message sink in. “Roxy, if you’d care to aid me in a small demonstration?”

She freezes for a moment, looking at the spark of mischief in his eyes that lights with a flash of heat as she nods and steps forward gracefully in her dancing heels. He extends his left hand to her, and the few steps she takes to join him, when he’s following her every moment with his eyes, feel like an eternity and strangely like a second at the same time. And then his right hand is on the small of her back and under her left palm she can feel the flex of the muscles in his arm and her right hand is in his left, and unlike when he bowed over her hand, this isn’t some momentary interaction. She’s close enough to feel the heat radiating from his frame. He towers over her - she’s only five-two, but for some reason, maybe it’s the gentleness with which he encloses her slender hand within his own, or the calm, confident way which he draws her body close to his, so close they’re almost touching but not quite, he doesn’t scare her. 

“Percival, whenever you’re ready.” Merlin calls calmly, and Percival cracks his knuckles from where he’s sitting at the grand piano in the the far corner of the mirror-lined room. The rumble of Merlin’s deep voice makes Roxy stiffen in surprise, but before she can even think about pulling away, because what she’s about to do has suddenly dawned on her, Percival begins to play a smoky, lilting melody. She closes her eyes for a moment to get a feel for the music - it isn’t a piece she’s heard before - and when she opens them again and meets Merlin’s gaze, the look he’s giving her makes her inhale sharply. The thought that she desperately wants to dance with him, all of a sudden, almost makes her faint.

But there’s no time to think, because then he’s leading her around the floor in a series of steps that are at times fluid and sensual, and at others sharp and crackling with heat. Every time their eyes lock, it’s as though she’s been knocked for six. His gaze, focused and smoldering, traps her in such a way that she dances more dangerously than she ever has, her legs sliding against his, her torso twisting and turning, as she tries to draw out a similar reaction from him. She doesn’t know why she suddenly wants to provoke him in this way - it feels instinctive, somehow, but she can’t explain it ( _doesn’t want to)._

When he understands what she’s doing, after a particularly wicked moment where she slowly dragged her right foot all the way up his left leg up to his mid thigh and then extended it so her leg was straight and her toes were pointing at the ceiling, he takes her ankle in his left hand, holds it there for a moment, brushing the skin softly with his thumb, meeting her challenge with burning eyes before loosening his grip. He pushes at her ankle slightly, and she brings her leg down in a graceful arc, bending her other knee slightly so he can then pull her up, her right hand in his left. 

But as he pulls her up, he deliberately steps closer to her, never breaking eye contact, so the length of their bodies touch, drawing a gasp from her lungs. But because he’s a gentleman, he gives her a moment to accept the contact. He times it perfectly, so they pause in time with the music, and none of their audience are any the wiser. 

His eyes darken when she nods slightly, and from that moment on, they push and challenge each other into ever more daring and sensual steps. But they remain a gentleman and a lady: where they touch, their hands don’t stray, and their dance is all the more sensual for it, as they spin and turn their way across the the parquet. Percival speeds up the tempo as he draws the music to a close, and Roxy finds herself exhilaratingly out of breath as she sharply, fluidly kicks her feet in step after step. 

The sensation of Merlin’s hard body against hers, and the strength and grace he radiates, makes her surprise herself as she bites back a moan, an action he doesn’t fail to notice, eyes flicking down to her lips and when his eyes meet hers again there’s fire there, but there’s wonder as well, as though he can hardly believe his attraction might be reciprocated. 

It’s too much. 

She trembles in his arms. She’s too aware of him, too sensitive. She’s never felt anything like this before in her life. It’s far, far, too much. She can feel each breath he takes, the tightening and releasing of the muscles in his arms, she’s close enough to admire the beautiful length of his eyelashes. She revels in it, wrapped as she is in his masculine scent as though it were a cloak that binds her to him and hides her from the rest of the world. 

Being held by him -

It’s _heaven._       

And then Merlin slips his foot under hers to guide her into a slide, and all of a sudden it feels like every single part of their bodies are touching and she wonders why she hasn’t fainted yet. He draws it out exquisitely, almost to the point of pain, before pulling her into a spin that is agonising in its speed and perfection, so they end how they began, palm to palm, his right hand searingly warm on the small of her back, and her fingers resting lightly on his arm, her back to the other recruits. 

There’s a moment of stunned silence after they finish. 

She can only try and bring her breathing under control, tilting her head forwards the slightest bit so that her forehead rests on his chest, silently thanking every deity under the sun that she didn’t tie her hair up this morning, so her actions go unnoticed by their audience. She exhales shakily and he shivers in response, both of them suddenly realising that their current position somehow feels much more intimate than any of their dancing. But he doesn’t move in any way, and that gives her the courage to look up into his eyes. She wants to kiss him, she wants to weld herself so tightly, so completely to him, to give him everything she has and everything she is, and that delights and terrifies her in equal measure. 

He looks back at her, his gaze warm, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and she realises he’s just as affected as she is, and part of her revels in the sudden thrum of power that lances through her veins at the thought that she’s wrought this on him. She’s managed to do what no-one else has ever done: she’s made the unflappable Merlin bring down his walls, and it’s all for her alone. But the other part of her is reeling, struggling to draw air into her lungs, barely able to stand. Somehow, Merlin senses this and tightens his hold on her, reassuring her, grounding her, telling her silently that they’ll both have the time later to clear their heads, to try and make sense of this wonderful, terrible, earth-shattering moment that has brought them to the very edges of their sanity.   

Gently, he smiles at her, squeezes her hands and steps back, and at the sudden lack of heat she immediately feels so bereft of him that tears well up in her eyes. But the shy affection in his expression warms her, a burning coil that spreads through her veins like wildfire, so she squares her shoulders, and blinking the moisture away she turns to face the other recruits with an uncertain smile.

“Bagsy Roxy as my partner!” Eggsy calls enthusiastically, and Roxy wants to hug him, because bless him, in the short time they’ve known each other he’s become her best friend, practically a brother, and he knows exactly how to redirect the conversation, to take the spotlight off her. From the teasing smile on his face, Roxy knows Eggsy’s going to give her hell about her dance later, but at the moment she doesn’t care, because her dance with Merlin was personal, and she doesn’t want everyone commenting on it in front of her. 

“Well, after such a proficient demonstration, I think it’s only fair that Roxy chooses.” Merlin replies calmly, and god, it takes everything she has to keep her face impassive and not show her reaction to him, because the things that voice does to her… she was attracted to him before, but _now -_

Mentally, she shakes herself, locking those thoughts far into the deep recesses of her mind, where she hopes they’ll stay until she has the privacy to make sense of them. “Eggsy,” she replies with a smile, and laughs at her best friend’s whoop of joy. 

“The rest of you, pair up.” Merlin orders, and thus commence three hours of tripping, swearing, and for Roxy and Eggsy, mad giggling fits. 

 

* * *

 

At the end of the session, when everyone stinks of sweat and all except Roxy and Eggsy are groaning about the bruises that will make it difficult for them to walk tomorrow, Percival asks Roxy to stay behind.

She walks over to the piano where her uncle offers her a bottle of water which she pours over her head, a childish habit she can’t seem to get rid of. “Well, uncle?” Merlin catches himself watching as the rivulets run down her face, down the curve of the back of her neck, darkening her crimson leotard, and he swallows unsteadily, fighting for some semblance of control. But then she shakes her head as if she were a dog, water flying everywhere, and he laughs to himself, the moment broken. He doesn’t know why he’s lingering, and he really should get back to his office and make a start on writing up the morning’s reports -

That’s a lie.

He knows exactly why he’s still in the ballroom, hovering around like a confused butterfly. 

Percival grins in his usual exuberant manner. “Exquisite dancing, but you knew that already, and that isn’t why I’ve asked you to stay.” As Roxy frowns her confusion, Percival continues, talking to Merlin who whirls around at the sound of his name. “If you have a spare fifteen minutes, Merlin, might I put Roxy through her fencing paces?” 

Merlin’s given the other recruits half an hour to shower before lunch, so there’s time, but he doesn’t think a ballroom is the place to do it when they have a perfectly good state of the art salle d’armes down the hall.

“Perce…”

But Percy’s already tossing Roxy her pointe shoes and a rapier, and she plucks it out of the air with her right hand before sitting on the floor to change her shoes, having learnt at a very early age that her uncle tends to get what he wants. Seeing this, Merlin sighs.

“Fine.”

“Excellent.” Percival is swishing his rapier around, rolling his shoulders to warm them up. As Merlin watches Roxy wind the ribbons around her ankles, unsure where this is going, Percival catches his incredulous expression and grins. “You might want to stand near the piano, Merlin. We’re going to need the space.” Then he turns to Roxy and asks, “Will two minutes warming up your shoes be sufficient, seeing as you’ve already been dancing?”

Roxy nods as she gets to her feet, leaving her rapier on the floor. Merlin watches as she rises up en pointe and begins to walk around, doing ankle exercises. Then she waves her hand vaguely in her uncle’s direction, saying, “I’ll do a few spins and then I’ll be ready, so if I could have the floor?” Percival bows and steps back against the wall in an exaggerated manner that makes her laugh, before she brings her hands down to her sides, takes a deep breath, and then begins to pirouette and jump across the room, landing as silently as a cat. 

It’s an impressive performance, but Merlin already knew she was a fantastic dancer. Objectively, he can see how ballet might help Roxy when she’s having to fight hand to hand, and it has the great advantage of reminding him how fluidly and gracefully she moves - as if he’s ever going to need reminding after _that_ tango, but he’s uncertain how fencing and ballet can work well together in a realistic situation. 

Roxy picks up her rapier and her uncle does the same, and Merlin realises they’re waiting for him to speak the conventional formula.

“En garde,” he calls, and Roxy’s grin turns feral as she salutes her uncle. “Pret. Allez.” 

Roxy lunges forward, and the rapiers crash together, a thunderous clap of sound. And then she’s twirling, leaping, evading every single movement Percival makes, blocking, turning every attack of his into a defensive movement. She’s also _fast,_ and that blasted full-body leotard she’s wearing does absolutely nothing to hinder Merlin’s appreciation of her lithe form. Her balance, her accuracy with the rapier, her balletic leaps and pirouettes in the air to then strike at Percival’s chest and then twisting out of range before landing… he’s never seen anything like it. 

He’s spellbound. 

The laughter in her eyes as she lands a particularly fiddly hit on Percival, her sinuous movements, the way the light reflects her golden hair on her flashing blade, the way her fighting style reflects her tenacity and her intelligence… in that moment, he realises he’s falling for her, harder and faster than ever, and it takes a conscious effort to redirect his thoughts towards the things he’s meant to be assessing, namely Roxy’s skill with a blade. 

And then, because he wants to retreat to the safety of his office, to sink into his chair and work out what the hell is going on inside his brain, he calls out, “Thank you, Percival, Roxy. I’ve seen enough.”

His fellow knight and Roxy stop immediately, smiling and breathing hard. He doesn’t intend to say anything more as he makes a note on his tablet clipboard, but when Roxy turns an inquisitive expression in his direction, he can’t help the upward twitch of his lips, and when she answers with a brilliant smile, he’s not sure he wants to. 

“Nicely done, Roxy. I suggest you get some lunch with the others.”

 

* * *

 

What the _fuck_ is he doing? What on earth made him dance with her? _Why_ is he torturing himself like this? He knows nothing can come of it whilst she’s still in training, and he would never forgive himself if she were to be sent home because he couldn’t control himself. And yet, ever since Percival spoke to him about her - god, before he’d even _met_ her - on some level, he was already lost. It doesn’t help that she seems to be acing everything he throws at the recruits, and now he knows just how good she is at fencing he supposes her training scores are only going to get higher. Not that he wants her to fail and be sent home, because he truly thinks she’s shaping up to be prime Lancelot material, but because it’s just so damn tiring having to be so impassive all the time, to be so careful where Roxy’s concerned. 

He’s not ashamed of his attraction to her, but he doesn’t want to make it public yet. A snide voice in his head laughs at him - _attraction? if only you were only attracted to her_ \- and he groans. Neither does he want to frighten her, especially after everything she’s been through. A part of him wants to know precisely what happened to her, so he won’t have to deal with his imagination coming up with the worst scenarios he can possibly think of, and also so he can make sure no-one ever hurts her like that again. But the other part of him doesn’t want to know, because he has this horrible sinking feeling, this terrible inkling that he won’t be able to handle it.  

He wants her to trust him, he realises.

But in order to build that trust, he has to allow himself to be vulnerable, and that’s something he’s terrified of doing. 

He’s _Merlin._

He’s the one all the other Kingsmen rely on, to keep them alive, to remain calm even in the most difficult situations. They also rely on him to be there - should the worst happen - until the very end, to comfort them, distract them from the pain as their life bleeds from them.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone called him by his true name and that frightens him more than he might care to admit, because if he allows himself to acknowledge the truth of it, he’ll also have to acknowledge something else.

He’s alone.

More than that - he’s desperately, desperately lonely.

Seducing the odd mark doesn’t count.

Most of the time, he tells himself it doesn’t bother him. He keeps those thoughts firmly shoved in a safe at the back of his mind that may as well have been made out of reinforced concrete. He tells himself that the more he keeps himself busy, running all the Kingsmen, staying up until four in the morning in his lab working on improving some gadget, he won’t have time to feel anything on those rare occasions he actually leaves HQ and goes home to his flat in South Kensington. 

He doesn’t like the hollowness he feels when he turns his key in the lock and opens his door, faced with a dark, silent flat, his shadow stretching out in front of him on the parquet like some miserable parody of a mirror. He can’t stand long evenings curled up on his leather sofa with only his husky Inigo for company, watching shit TV, or playing the radio on full blast - anything, _anything_ to chase away the suffocating sound of silence that he’s become all too familiar with. 

Is it any wonder he practically lives at HQ?

He has the other Kingsmen, of course, but it isn’t the same thing. 

He’s friends with some of them - Percival and Galahad for starters, but Percival’s been busy as an uncle for the past twenty odd years, and there was an awkward moment a few years into his Kingsman career when he had to fend off Harry’s drunken advances, not being inclined in that direction. He can laugh about it now with him, but he’s made it a point never to accept a drink from Harry again. 

He’s also not a legacy, like the other Kingsmen. Oh, his family is as illustrious as any of the others, but none of his relatives work in intelligence. He can’t tell his family about the new gadget he’s been working on, can’t ring his brother up and explain why his day’s gone so badly, how he’s worried about one of his agents. He’s missed weddings, funerals, more Burns’ Nights Dinners than he can count, because he’s been shouting at Gawain down the comms as he defuses a bomb in the Paris sewers, or talking Bedivere through stealing some Russian oligarch’s blood diamonds. 

And yet he’s been more open with Roxy in the short time he’s known her than he’s been with anyone else in the last decade. Simply having her in his arms had been heaven and hell all at once, and he’s astonished at the sense of _life_ he’s been experiencing when he’s around her. It’s incredible how a single smirk from her, one small movement on her part, can make him feel so strongly. He catches her eye and he suddenly remembers what it feels like to be human, suddenly remembers that he is in fact human, a sensation overwhelming in both its pain and euphoria. She makes him laugh, and he feels - dare he say it - _happy_ in her presence. How she reads him so easily he can’t fathom, because to everyone else he’s nigh on impenetrable. And yet she hasn’t dismissed him, asked him to cease his subtle attentions. 

Dancing with her - _god,_ when she’d slid her foot up his leg, the heel of her shoe travelling up the fabric of his trousers with such precision - he’d been worried in that moment that she might be too much for him, that she might be too brave, too determined, too intelligent. But she’d repaid his moments both of vulnerability and daring with equal fire and compassion. It had been the most exhilarating experience of his life. When she’d clung to him as though he was the only thing tethering her to reality, the surge of protectiveness and affection he’d felt had all but failed to bring him to his knees. 

And then they’d gone from fire - bright eyed, trembling under the emotional and sensory onslaught _-_ to tenderness as she’d rested her forehead on his chest, her exhale feeling like an embrace _(like a caress),_ and from that moment on he’s wanted to wake up like that every morning for the rest of his existence, however long or short that might be.

Somehow her gesture, more than their dancing, gives him hope that she might just appreciate him as a person rather than as Merlin, the man who attempts to keep all of Kingsman alive. It makes him feel _wanted,_ rather than just lusted after.

All things considered, Merlin feels quite cheerful as he leaves his office to get lunch.

 

* * *

 

 

“Fess up, Roxy.” Eggsy says to her as they’re playing with their puppies on the front lawn some time after lunch, far enough away from the buildings so that there isn’t any chance of them being overheard. 

“What?”

“Come on - you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He shoots back, wiggling his eyebrows. “That tango of yours this morning.”

“What about it?” She’s not deliberately being coy; she just wants to keep the elation she’s currently feeling to herself, wants to wrap it around her like a warm snuggly blanket. But under the elation, there’s everything else. She feels like she’s in a dream, not entirely sure if the dance this morning really happened. She’s feeling too much, experiencing too much, and she - 

“Roxy. Spill the beans.”

She throws him a half-hearted glare, but then she sighs and tangles her fingers into Syrah’s soft fur. “I don’t know, Eggsy.” 

“You don’t know what?” He replies softly.

“I don’t know what I…”

“You don’t know what you feel?”

She shakes her head, hugging Syrah’s body against her, seeking comfort in the puppy’s familiar smell. “No, I do know. At least, I have some idea. I - I - it’s just - everything’s happened so _fast._ And I - I never expected…”

“To fall for someone like him? He not your usual type?”

“Eggsy!” She exclaims, hitting his arm playfully, before sobering. “Actually I never expected to fall for anyone at all.” She doesn’t voice the continuation of her thought _and for it to be reciprocated_ \- the only person she can see herself ever confessing that to is Merlin, and it’s not the kind of confession that is made quickly.  

Eggsy snorts. “I don’t believe that. You’re smart, and kind and pretty. Who wouldn’t be interested in you?”

“You?” She parries back, her eyebrow raised, a smirk plastered across her face. 

“Well, I  - er - don’t make me dig me own grave, Rox.” His flustered reply draws a soft, genuine laugh from her lips. “You’re more like me older sister.” 

“Don’t worry, I know.” She bumps his shoulder with her own. “I’m just pulling your leg.”

They grin at each other, and Roxy feels the pressure on her chest lighten. She’s never really had friends before, at least not close ones, and she’s struck by how wonderful it feels. 

Syrah licks her hand, wanting attention, and Roxy gladly turns to the puppy. Eggsy doesn’t say anything, simply sits next to her, watching her carefully, waiting for her to talk in her own time. 

“I haven’t really had the best experience with men.” She says eventually.

“And?” Eggsy probes gently.

“Merlin’s not like any of them. He doesn’t expect any less of me than any of you lot because I’m a woman. He doesn’t see me as a trophy, as an object that will smile and stay silent. He looks at me and I feel - “ she breaks off, ducking her head so her loose hair falls around her face, hiding her blushing cheeks.

“Aww,” Eggsy replies, eyes twinkling. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” She glances at him, then, and it only takes a second before they’ve both dissolved into giggles. She’s laughing so hard she thinks she may have ripped her diaphragm, so he’s able to evade her slap with ease. 

Eventually, their giggles subside, and they both look at the clouds in the sky silently, the two puppies bounding around in the grass. The silence between them is comfortable, easy. 

Then Eggsy says, “Roxy?” and she turns to look at him, folding her legs under her. “I know this ain’t really my place, but have you spoken about it at all?”

“With Merlin?” She shivers at the thought, at the sudden spike of adrenaline. 

Eggsy hums in response. 

“We’ve never been alone. We haven’t even had the chance to have a proper conversation, much less talk about - about - “

“The tango?” He replies slyly.

She blushes. “I suppose that’s a good way of putting it.”

His eyes soften as he considers her seriously. “You’re really falling for him, aren’t you?”

The smile brightens her expression before she realises what she’s doing. 

“Yes, I think I am,” she whispers to herself as Syrah barks at her, tail wagging, and Roxy picks up the stick and throws it high into the air and watches as the two puppies chase after it. 

She thinks of the way he looks at her, eyes lit with a warmth only she pays attention to, lips curled up in the slightest hint of a smile… the way he held her ankle, so gently, yet so confidently, the heady rush of adrenaline and admiration, a potent cocktail. She wants to throw her head back and close her eyes and _feel,_ forever. She can hear the affection in his voice when he speaks to her, the way he softens his tone ever so slightly, and she wonders why such a brilliant, complex man looks at her.

She’s falling for him, more quickly than she ever thought possible.                   

 

    

 

 

 

 

           

 

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go! Please do tell me what you think of it and feed the comments box below, and until the next time xxx


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